An Independent Woman (41 page)

I
T WAS EARLY FEBRUARY
when Barbara telephoned her brother, Joe, at Napa and asked whether he could see her at about eleven o'clock. “About what, Barbara?” he asked. “Those are office hours and I'm kind of busy.”

“Yes, office hours. I want to talk to you about how rotten I feel.”

“Did you talk to Horowitz about it?” Horowitz was her family internist.

“I haven't seen Horowitz in years. I want to talk to you, and I don't want Philip to know, and I don't want Sally to know.”

“Well, Philip, yes. And Sally isn't going to be here. She's off to see May Ling. But if you have a fever, you shouldn't be driving all that distance.”

“I don't have a fever. I'm just feeling very weak and rotten.”

“There's Sam, right there in San Francisco.”

“Sam's not a doctor, he's a surgeon, and he's too pricey for me. I can't afford Sam. Joe, that's a joke. I don't want my son examining me.”

“Can you leave now?”

“Yes.”

“All right, come on down. I'll clear an hour for you. I saw you just two weeks ago, and you appeared to be all right. Tired, but all right. There's a new syndrome going around, a sort of fatigue thing—but nothing too serious. Anyway, I'll be glad to see you, and maybe I can put your worries at rest. Drive carefully.”

Curiously, she felt better once she was on the road. It was a clear, cool day, the sky rumpled with small, fluffy clouds—and she had immense trust in her brother Joe. He was three years younger than Barbara, but they were nevertheless close and comfortable with each other. Dan Lavette, her father, had divorced Jean Seldon to marry May Ling, and Barbara had not known Joe during her childhood. The bonding between them was strong, and when Joe married Eloise and Adam's daughter, Sally, the bonding became even stronger.

Barbara thought about all this as she drove down to Napa. She had told Philip that she might drive to Highgate, but she would be back to join him for dinner at the MacGelsies'. Birdie had induced a Hollywood star to join the Unitarian Association, and she wanted him to meet Philip, thinking that it was time they had some publicity. Ordinarily Philip would have declined. He didn't like that sort of publicity, thinking of the headlines when some celebrity turned Catholic. He shared the belief some church members held that one did not proselytize for the Unitarians—although at times he thought wistfully of Thomas Jefferson's prediction that in a hundred years after Jefferson's time, all of America would be Unitarian—but he gave in to Barbara's urging and her conviction that this particular star was a very decent man and that it would be nice to meet him.

Joe's nurse, Hilda Cahn, a stocky middle-aged woman with short gray hair, took her into Joe's office, and Joe embraced Barbara, kissed her, and seated her in a chair facing his desk.

“Now tell me about it,” he said.

“Yes—you know, Joe, I've always been a walker. I'd do the whole length of the Embarcadero, and then back up to my house. Now I do one block and I'm tired.”

“When did this begin?”

“Almost three months ago, when we were in London. First I put it down to jet lag, but it got worse when we were in Israel, and bit by bit it's been getting worse since we came home.”

“Do your legs hurt?”

“No, they're tired, but it feels like exercise-tired, not pain. My stomach's been bad, but I thought that was only indigestion.”

He rose and felt her forehead. “You're cool, but I'll take your temperature anyway.”

While she sat with the thermometer in her mouth, he put on his stethoscope and listened to her heart.

“Temperature's all right. Barbara, I'm going to take an electrocardiograph and then some X rays. But tell me, is there anything else different in the way you feel? What about your digestion? Anything at all?” He was taking her blood pressure now. “You've always had good low pressure. That hasn't changed much. You're seventy, aren't you?”

“This past November.” She thought about his other question. “Heartburn—I never used to have much heartburn. Now I take Turns.”

Joe nodded. “That doesn't signify much of anything. Constipation?”

“Not much, no. Years ago Horowitz gave me a bowel softener. He said to use it instead of a laxative. I still do, occasionally.”

“All right. First we'll take some X rays, and then Hilda will give you an electrocardiograph. But don't worry until we have something to worry about—and perhaps we won't.” Joe then took her into the X ray room and had her stretch out on the table. He took several X rays, and then Hilda gave her an electrocardiograph. Barbara had not had one in years, and it was an odd feeling to lie there in brassiere and briefs with wires latched onto her chest. In the past Joe had advised her to have a physical every six months—advice she had ignored. When the electrocardiograph was done, Hilda suggested that she make herself comfortable in the waiting room while the X rays were developed.

There were no other patients waiting. Evidently Joe had cleared his calendar for her. She picked up a copy of
Time
magazine, but her usual interest in the current lunacies and injustices of mankind had vanished. She was frightened and depressed. Why hadn't she asked Philip to come with her? She wanted his arm around her, the good cheer and unquestioned hope that he always radiated. Philip would have told her not to worry, that whatever it was, they would meet it and overcome it.

Time passed, an eternity of time, and then she finally heard Joe's heavy footsteps. She waited for him to appear. If he was smiling, all would be well; but he was not smiling, and her heart sank.

“Come into my office, Barbara,” he said.

She went into Joe's office and sat again in the chair facing his desk. The X rays were on his desk.

“We have a problem,” Joe said. “I don't know how much of a problem, but you have a fairly large tumor on your intestines, and another that is smaller. Now, don't think cancer immediately. I know you well enough to know that you want the truth, as well as I can spell out the truth. I'm not an oncologist, so I can't tell you how serious this is, but there's no reason to jump to conclusions. This may or may not be a malignancy. I've already called Bill Calahan, and he and Sam will be waiting for us at Mercy Hospital in two hours. I told Hilda to switch everything to Dr. Clement here in Napa. He covers for me.”

Barbara was silent.

“My dear, take a deep breath. Please don't be frightened.”

She was frightened, terribly frightened. She took several deep breaths and then, in a whisper, said, “Why must I go to the hospital?”

“Because they will know what to do. I called Philip at the church. He'll meet us at the hospital.”

“Joe,” she asked, “am I going to die? Tell me the truth.”

“I can't because I don't know. At this moment you're alive, and your heart is good and your color is good.”

“I don't want to go to the hospital. I want to go home,” she said, like a child pleading.

“Barbara dear,” he said gently, “you're my sister and my patient. You must go with me to the hospital. Then we'll know. You do want to know, don't you? There's no alternative.”

She was silent for a few moments, her eyes wet; then she nodded. “I'll drive there myself.”

“No, I can't let you do that. You've just had a terrible blow. I've canceled everything for today. I'll take you.”

“All right, Joe. We'll go in my car,” she said softly. “I'm better now that I heard the worst. I'll ask you only one more thing—do I have a chance?”

“Of course you do. I don't even know what these tumors are.”

“My mother died of cancer.”

“That means nothing.”

“If I'm in the hospital, Eloise and Sally will want to come. One of them can drive you back. Or you can drive back in my car. I can do without it for a while.”

“Don't worry about the car.”

Driving back to San Francisco, Barbara confronted what might well mean her death. She had faced death before, both in Nazi Germany and in El Salvador, but those were moments of high excitement, not unlike Philip's plunge into the burning bus. This was different. She recalled Philip telling her once that part of his opposition to the death penalty was the injunction in Deuteronomy where Moses is told that he must die and never cross over to the Promised Land.
Why,
she wondered,
should anyone be cursed with a knowledge of approaching death? But I am being foolish, she told herself. Millions of people die and know that they are dying, and I certainly don't know that I am dying.

She said to Joe, “Don't ever lie to me, Joe. If I am going to die, tell me so. I don't want that monstrous chemotherapy. I've watched too many people suffer through it. And I don't want to die in a hospital. Can you promise me that?”

“You're not dying.”

“All right. I don't really feel that I'm dying. I feel quite well now that I'm over that dumb scene I made. What shall I tell Philip? He loves me so. Do you know, Joe, I was never entirely sure that I loved him—oh, I did love him, but not the way he loved me. Then—oh, just about Christmastime, I fell madly in love with him, absolutely madly, which is very strange to happen with a man you're already married to.”

“Not so strange,” Joe said.

“And then this.”

She was mostly silent for the rest of the drive. At the hospital Philip was waiting for her in the parking lot, and he threw his arms around her and kissed her. Joe went ahead to register her, and Philip and Barbara followed more slowly.

“What did Joe tell you?” Barbara asked.

“Not much. He said there shouldn't be any delay. You'll stay here overnight, and they may operate in the morning.”

“He didn't tell me that. Why don't doctors tell me the truth?”

“I suppose he told me all he knew. Joe said he just doesn't know enough to make any sort of diagnosis. Sam and a doctor, Bill Calahan, a specialist in oncology, will meet with you a little later. We'll do this together, darling, and we'll fight it through.”

The hospital room was pleasant enough, with a bright shaft of afternoon sunlight cutting through the windows. Philip helped her to undress and she put on the white hospital gown that a nurse brought her.

“Is it all right if I just sit in a chair?” she asked the nurse.

“Of course. If the doctor wants you in bed, he'll tell you.”

“I thought Sam would be here,” Barbara said to Philip.

“Probably he's with Joe and the oncologist. He'll be here.”

“Why have I always been at odds with Sam, Philip?”

“You don't want to discuss that now, do you? I'm sure he's thinking about nothing but you at this moment.”

“Dear, dear Philip, who cannot think ill of anyone. Will you stay with me?”

“All night, if they let me.”

“I love you very much, and I need you.”

“I'll be here.”

A
T THAT SAME TIME
, in Sam's office, four physicians were discussing Barbara's case. They were Sam and Joe; Dr. Calahan, the oncologist; and Dr. David Friedman, whom Sam considered to be the best abdominal surgeon in the hospital. It was possible that Sam considered himself the best, but the thought of operating on his mother himself was inconceivable to him. The four X rays that Joe had taken in Napa were posted on a large viewing light and were being examined by the physicians. Sam felt that Barbara should be X rayed again here in the hospital, and he pointed to two dubious areas.

Calahan did not agree with him. “I know what I see and I know what to expect. You're right, Sam, those two areas are suspect, but these are good pictures. Joe tells me that she was very troubled with the information, and she's been sedated, and she's probably relaxed and more comfortable now. Why upset her more?”

“I'll want X rays in the morning,” Friedman said.

“You must operate immediately?” Joe asked.

“No question. No other way to see how far it has metastasized.”

“What do you expect?” Sam asked Calahan.

“The worst, I'm sorry to say.”

“Why?”

“Well, those spots Sam pointed to. They would indicate the liver, and if it's most of the liver, there's nothing to be done.”

“No hope for chemotherapy?”

Calahan shrugged. “It would probably ease your conscience, Sam.”

“Don't give me that shit about my conscience,” Sam said angrily. “This is my mother.”

“Take it easy, Sam.”

“What about chemo?”

“If there's no hope for the liver and if it has metastasized to other parts,” Calahan said gently, “then chemotherapy would at best only delay the end a few weeks more—with a good deal of suffering in the interim.”

“The point is,” Friedman said, “do you want to remove the tumors on the intestines? That would be a severe shock to her system, and it would only bring the end on more rapidly. From what you say, Dr. Calahan, nothing can be done about the liver.”